Epilogue
by MiniInfinity
Summary: A continued version of Mockingjay's epilogue that is still in Katniss's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

Everyone went in their own directions. Gale is helping create bombs in District Two. Johanna is boarding a train back in Seven. My mom is helping Annie cope with her first pregnancy in Four. Her first child. Finnick's child. I know Finnick would be proud of Annie because I've been getting calls from my mother of her progress. Annie hasn't been mourning over Finnick's death as I thought she would. Finnick is watching her up there. Peeta and I buy a house near the Meadow. A graveyard. The only place where we can find peace. Because finding peace is hard these days.

When I step into the bakery, I focus on the bread and cakes and licking the frosting. Though it is a nice place to be, his bakery, with the sweet scent of bread and frosting leeching into the air, my mind cannot escape the day Peeta gave me hope. And I can't ever find a way to pay him back.

The woods are never an option for Peeta. Scared to death whenever an animal passes by. But when he has his flashbacks in the woods, he would sink down to his knees onto the earth, clutching a thick branch, and easily ripping it like paper. And when he catches me with a bow and arrow ready to kill game, his nightmares has fully convinced him that I'm attempting to kill him. His eyes filled with rage, I quickly climb up a tree. It helps. My disappearance for a few minutes neutralizes the fact that he was about to kill me. Then we're back to normal.

Peeta still has those moments where he hangs onto the back of the chair or clutching the edge of the table, fighting off the flashbacks the Capitol has drugged him into believing. The moments where I feel helpless. Unable to make those flashbacks cease to exist. But there are other moments where he persuades me to bring a new generation of Mellark children into the world. A world where the Capitol can't lay a finger on. Where they can jump around and be free without Peeta and I trying to protect them from the Peacekeepers, attempting to snatch them away, forcing them to work for the Capitol until their arms fall off their sockets or torture them.

I still have countless nights where I wake up screaming from the horrid nightmares of the Hunger Games we were forced to play. Some are fictitious, where even younger kids, way before their teens, are sent in. Some are the deaths of love ones. Daunting mutts. His lips are there to brush off the tears of my sister's death. His words are there to convince me that my nightmares are not real. That they are like some kind of mind muttation or a part of my brain that makes negatively rendered images of my past.

One night, I wake when I couldn't feel his warm breath brush against my cheek. He lay next to me, paralyzed, until my kisses and singing had eventually waded off his nightmares.

On another rainy night, the booming of the thunder kept us from sleeping, and he popped the subject he had been telling me, but I keep dodging, declining out of fear.

"I want kids, Katniss," he whispered as his fingers fiddled with my dark hair.

In the semidarkness, I found the scar on his cheek. My fingers traced on the scar. "I know you do."

"Why are we waiting, then?" he asked, his voice a little harsher than what I normally heard. "There are no more Games. Coin and Snow can't take them away from us. They can run around and be free without worrying about anything." Then his warm hand caressed the side of my face. "What are you afraid of, Katniss?" he asked in a soft voice.

I swallowed hard. Everything. I was afraid, petrified about what would happen to our child. But I didn't tell him that. Instead, I curled up and sunk my head into his chest. His arms wrapped around me to comfort me. I was not ready. My nightmares had created a barrier as hard as iron to not have any kids.

To have my kids in my nightmares. Not only I would be lashing and screaming, I would hold my head to the point where it feels like it will crush into a million pieces. And Peeta will never help me recover. Not even his comforting words or strong arms. His kisses won't do, either. Nothing can drain the nightmares from my mind.

Sure, everything is okay. No more Hunger Games. No more taking orders from Snow or Coin. No more war. But our minds have not, nor ever will, wipe the memories of the everlasting, living nightmares. The effect it had. Our many losses. What rose from the ashes is a better place for everyone.

But a thought hits me thinking about all of this. Maybe I won't lose the boy with the bread.

* * *

><p>I found out when I'd been sticking my head in the toilet, pushing my breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the previous day into the bowl. My mom suggested that I must be pregnant, but I denied. My stomach has grown a small lump. By then, I was convinced I was carrying a small being inside me to be brought into the world. One of my worst nightmares that will come true.<p>

Peeta never found out until about a month of vomiting. He came from the bakery, sending the sweet and savory aroma of bread and frosting everywhere. I was in the bedroom, flipping and reminiscing through the family book we've kept through all these years.

"Peeta," I whispered when he found me in the bedroom. I place the precious book on the blanket and kissed him. Then I smiled - a real smile – my eyes flooded with tears.

"Yes?" he asked with raised eyebrows. Because he has never seen me this way. Smiling and crying at the same time.

I took his hand, warm from a busy day of baking, and placed it on my stomach, where we felt a faint drum of the baby's heart.

I didn't say it. His eyes immediately lit up and his lips traveled everywhere on my face, starting from my cheeks to my lips to my forehead.

He took my face in his hands and pressed his lips against my forehead one last time. "You're _really_ pregnant. Real or not real?"

His thumbs ran across my cheeks to wipe the tears streaking my face. My throat was already constricted, but I managed to choke out an answer. "Real."

* * *

><p>I walk to Haymitch's new, small house near mine. I find him knocked out on the couch, hanging his left arm over the edge of the cushion, clutching a knife. I kick every beer bottle, dirty shirt, and moldy bits of food, pinching my nose and breathing through my mouth, as I make my way towards the sink. I fill a jug with cold water and pour it on his head, distancing myself from the couch. There's a grunt and he flips over, holding the blade in front of him. He quickly stands up, wiping his face with the cleanest part of the undershirt, until his eyes find me standing at the front door. It's the first spot I thought of for protection.<p>

He points the tip of the blade at me. Then he raises his eyebrows. "What do you want, now?"

I slowly step back inside, forcing him to drop the knife. "I need to tell you something."

He impatiently waves at me to continue. "Well, go on."

"I'm pregnant," I say blankly.

It takes a split second for him to respond. First with wide eyes, then with kind words and a smile.

"I can't wait, sweetheart," he says with a big smile.

* * *

><p>There are two of them. The eldest is the girl with my dark hair and Peeta's soft blue eyes. The youngest is the smaller boy with Peeta's blonde hair and my stormy gray eyes. He chases her, barely caught up with her in his toddler legs. Peeta and I watch from a bed of grass in the Meadow with his arms enveloping me, the crook of his chin resting on top of my head.<p>

In retrospect, this isn't my worse time with Peeta. Our nightmares had come to life before our eyes. We've been thrown into the Hunger Games twice. Peeta changed under the Capitol's hands. I brought kids into the world.

But I know someday we will have to tell them. My famine when I was barely a teen. Why I took over feeding the family. Peeta's skills at frosting in the bakery. The death of our love ones. The bread that helped my family survive at the brink of death. The beating he accepted to help me. The dandelion that told me to not lose hope. To hang on. What the hunger Games are and why they existed and how we managed to survive. My nightmares that usually disrupt their sweet and silent slumbers. Or why the nightmares come. The reason why their father hangs onto the chair or table or sitting at a corner, wading off the lies and flashbacks the Capitol has permanently burned into his head. Why I was the symbol of rebellion and how I received that title. The people we lost on the way to get the nation to be the way it is now. The family book that is filled with smiling faces, their stories, and just everything we know about him or her.

This is just the beginning of a new life. But in realization, there are much worse games to play.


	2. Chapter 2

The hammering against the wall begins as I dry the dishes. Maybe it's Rhye fooling around with Tristian. Throwing their toys around or trying to build forts.

"Dammit!" I hear Peeta yell from the floor above.

I look out the window to find a wave of dark hair rippling in the air as the short light hair follows behind her. It's not them.

I run up the stairs and roam around the second floor, turning my head side to side to find him in the empty green hallway.

"Peeta," I call out, worry filled in my voice.

Another bang from the wall coming to my left.

My fingers coil around the golden doorknob, trembling as the pounding continues. Our bedroom. I quickly open the door to find Peeta curled up in the back. Shuddering. The wall next to his head caves in, revealing the wood behind the green walls.

"Peeta!" I cry, kneeling in front of him. I take his hands, squeezing them tight. To make sure he knows that I'm here. His fingers curl around my hands to the point of possibly breaking my hands. "Peeta," I whisper.

His eyes shut tight, he whispers my name. "I can't."

"You can," I say calmly. "You promised you would stay. You did it the first time."

With gritted teeth, he yells. Sweat begins to form on his forehead, plastering his hair to his head. His breaths slip from his lips fast against the back of my hands.

Light footsteps begin to follow to my right.

"Mommy," Rhye calls steadily. Then her voice begins to shake. "Mommy, what's wrong with Dad-"

"Go downstairs," I command without turning around. "Don't bring your brother. Just stay there until I tell you it's okay."

"But Mommy-"

"Just go!" I yell. Immediately, I regret commanding so harshly because I never wanted to yell at my kids. Because they're seeing sides of their parents I knew they shouldn't be seeing.

"Mama," Tristian says blankly.

"Downstairs," I hear Rhye whisper. With that, the quick steps of their tiny feet fall down the stairs.

It's just like the sewer under the Capitol grounds. Where Peeta can't fight off the nightmares the Capitol drugged him into believing.

"Peeta," I say softly. "Listen to me."

"But the mutts-" he chokes out.

"Not real," I immediately tell him. I will never know which mutts. And I don't want to know.

He lets out another scream. This time, he's shaking more than ever, scaring me to death. Am I going to lose him over the Capitol? Am I going to let the nightmares win this time? I let go of his tight grip and press my palms on his cheeks. I pull his lips against mine as he shakes.

But when I let go, confident that he won against the tracker jacker venom, he begins to pant again.

Tears begin to form at the rims of my eyes because I may end up losing this fight. And I don't want to lose. Especially this one.

"Peeta," I say firmly. "You're not going to lose this time."

"But Katniss-"

"No, Peeta. You survived a war, two Hunger Games, and many other nightmares," I say. "I know you can do this. You're stronger than those nightmares."

His eyes slowly peel open. His body begins to settle down. His blue irises drowning in red. His pupils begin to dilate rapidly, almost the same pace as his breathing. I pull my hands under his, making sure they don't escape. But I have to let go. Because tears begin to streak his cheeks. I run my thumbs over his cheeks, collecting every drop.

I can't watch him stay broken. I've never seen the tracker jacker venom damage him this much. Not in the sewer. It's not like the sewer anymore. He's fighting off too many battles at the same time. And I seem useless. For once, I realize reality is better than our minds. The minds where I picture being safe. But for Peeta, it's the opposite. He watches people he loves get taken away, tortured, and murdered.

"Katniss," he whispers shakily. I keep my eyes locked on his. "They're gone."

A smile creeps onto my face. They're gone. For now. "That's good," I whisper.

He shakes his head. "No, they're _gone."_

But how is it possible? There's no way his nightmares are gone forever. The Capitol overdosed him with tracker jacker venom. But maybe it isn't enough to last his entire life. "How?" I ask, bewildered.

A slight smile forms on his lips. "Because I remember the bread. And the valley song. And your red plaid dress. When you kissed your sister's forehead on the first day of school. I remember everything before the Games."

"Yeah, but you said those during the Games," I reply. "The Capitol played edited tapes, and they probably added those."

"I remember seeing Prim looking at the cakes at the bakery," he says.

Those cakes Peeta frosted. The ones Prim dragged me to see from outside. The beautiful trees dotted with small red, blue, yellow, white, pink, purple flowers. The blue-green waves overlapping the small, jagged rocks. The ones greeting happy birthday or happy new year. The ones I can never afford to buy.

"I remember watching you run into the woods with Gale when you were only fifteen. How jealous I was. But I was scared," he says.

"Scared of what?" I ask gently. Because I only know why he would be jealous. My escape was the woods with Gale. I ran off with Gale. And not Peeta. Peeta couldn't escape the walls of the bakery with his mother inside.

"What if you don't come back? What if you get hurt?" he answers. "I watched you run in and out of the woods to make sure you were okay."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Ever since you started hunting," he whispers.

Guilt fills me. All these years, he's been watching for my safety while I never even thought about his. His mother hitting him in the bakery. What his mother did after he burned the bread. And many more.

"Peeta, I think you should get some rest," I suggest. because I don't want to talk about this anymore. All the things he did. And I never did anything to him of the equivalent value. I did nothing to beat that. I didn't even try.

He slowly nods. I stand up, holding onto his arms to help him up. But instead of guiding him to the bed, my arms wrap around him. He doesn't hesitate to hook his arms around my shoulders. For a long moment, we stand there with our arms around each other.

Maybe the nightmares are gone. Maybe we can be okay. But I won't. My nightmares are still lurking at the back of my head.

* * *

><p>I let Peeta sleep. I know he needs it. I head back down to the kitchen, scrubbing bits of food off the plates.<p>

"Mommy," Rhye says. Her small fingers hold onto the small pink dress.

I rinse my hands off and kneel down to her eye level. "Yes?"

"What's happened to Daddy?" she asks with worry.

I lift her up, settling her on the wooden kitchen counter. "He has nightmares. Everyone has them. Even me."

"Is that why you scream at night?"

I slowly nod, but for some reason, a smile forms. "Yeah, and your Daddy is there to help get rid of the nightmares. That's why he's so special."

"When did they start?" she asks so innocently.

"Long time ago. Ever seen my father died. But the worse came after-" I whisper.

"After what?"

I open my lips to say "The Hunger Games." But I don't want to scare her. Then again, she's going to know anyway. So I tell her, beginning with a sigh. "The Hunger Games. It's when people between twelve and eighteen have to fight to the death in live television. Daddy and I were in there twice. Nightmares have gotten worse ever since."

She tugs the corner of her lips downwards. "Why were you in it?"

Then I tell her about the thirteen districts rebelling against the Capitol. Leaving just twelve districts left, many poorly fed and clothed. Only a few special districts are fairly treated. How I volunteered for Prim in the reaping, which nearly broke me.

"Why do they come?" she questions. "The nightmares."

I shrug. Because I don't really know. "No one knows. Maybe they just come to make us braver."

She slowly nods. Her blue eyes latch on mine. "I don't want any nightmares."

"That's impossible," I say. It is. I know for sure. "Everyone gets them. I'll be there."

"But I don't want them," she whispers.

"We're just going to have to face it, Rhye," I whisper back. "But we'll still be there. Daddy and me. "

"Promise me," she says. She sticks a pinky out. "Pinky promise."

I loop my pinky around hers, which is too big. "Pinky swear." I begin to giggle at the thought. I've never done a pinky promise before. I wonder where she got the idea. I lift her back down and let her run after her brother.


	3. Extra Chapter

Peeta has left the house early due to this thing called "spring rush" with the cakes and cupcakes. And he is still at the bakery. At least he has a few assistants there to help him with the overflow of the bakery. He dropped the mail off on the kitchen counter for me. I take one quick look and find his name.  
>My fingertips run over the white envelope. My skin touching where his pen ran across the page, writing his address. Then writing mine.<br>I walk over to the wooden desk in front of the window. I slowly drop myself on the wooden chair, my eyes are stuck on the letter the whole time.

* * *

><p>How long have I been sitting on this wooden chair? An hour or two. I don't know. The letter fixates between my fingers. My thumb runs across the smooth paper, right over the words <em>I never forgot. <em>I can smell the smoke that once glued onto his body.

Gale's body.  
>Tears flood the rims of my eyes. I blink them away. I realize how long it has been since I've made any sort of communication with the hunter. My best friend.<br>_Catnip,__  
><em>How long it has been since he called me that? My chest aches. My first instinct is to go to the bakery. Talk to Peeta about this. But this is about Gale._  
>It's been a while since I called you that, huh? I don't think you'll forgive me. You know I didn't intend on dropping the bombs on the Capitol children. <em>

No, I don't blame him for her death. I can't. It's like blaming the person who manufactured weapon. Not the person behind the handle or the trigger or the quiver.

_I created the bombs, but I didn't know Coin was going to drop them in the Capitol, where the Capitol children were. I know I said the Capitol people deserved to have less than what they have, but I didn't mean to kill the children. I wanted our country to be equal. No more Games. Have the Capitol give the districts some food in the state of starvation for once. All I wanted was justice. Obviously, Coin didn't send that message out to the world correctly._

I pull the hem of my shirt over my lips, biting down on the cotton. I shut my eyes tight to the darkness. To have the letter between my fingertips. From Gale.  
><em>Don't cry<em>, I command myself. _He wouldn't want to see you cry._

_Anyway, it was hard to write this letter, considering the fact that I've scribbled, scratched, crumpled up thousands of pieces of paper before this one. This letter is longer than I thought. __  
><em>_I miss you, Katniss. I don't expect you to miss me back. How's life in District 12? How's Peeta? Your kids? You don't have to write__ me__ back. It would be nice, though. Just to hear how it's going. Your life. __  
>That's all I have to say for now. I hope everything is well. Take care.<em>

And the letter ends there.  
>I wipe my face with the back of my hand and loosen my teeth around the shirt, letting it drop back under my neck.<br>_I miss you, Gale._


	4. Chapter 4

Peeta stands to my right as I stare at the motionless black-and-white screen hanging on my left, thankful I'm lying flat on a small matted bed. Because if I was standing, Peeta would need to catch me.  
>"This isn't right," I tell her, my face contracting as I grimace.<br>Doctor Corliss shakes her head, biting her lower lip. She looks at Peeta. "I'm sorry, but-"  
>"It's wrong," I say shakily. I look up at Peeta.<br>Peeta takes my hand slowly. But he doesn't even meet my eyes for a second because they are fixated on the doctor.  
><em>It's all wrong!<em>  
>"Katniss-" Peeta starts softly.<br>"I did everything right like before!" I hiss, pulling my hand away from his grasp.  
>She shakes her head, letting her dark hair fly to the side. Her hazel eyes finally meet mine.<br>The rims of my eyes begin to flood.  
>I can't lose her.<br>My third child.  
>I didn't participate in any activities that will harm the health of my unborn child. Meaning I stopped hunting and running. I separated the foods I can eat, will eat, never eat, and have to eat. I've done some exercises that would help me during my pregnancy. Every night, I lie on my back, Peeta making sure that I don't lie on my stomach.<br>"I'm sorry, but the ultrasound disagrees," she says with not a string of pity in her voice.  
>"Peeta," I plead lowly.<br>But he refuses to look at me.  
>"Peeta," I call firmer.<br>"Can you just do it again?" he asks, his voice strained. He finally looks at me. I can see the tears settling in his eyes. "I want to make sure."  
>To make sure I didn't kill my baby. To make sure that there was some mistake in the first test. To see that she's healthy. To watch the screen move.<br>"Okay," Doctor Corliss agrees.

* * *

><p>The same still screen.<br>First it's silent.  
>Then Peeta's voice disrupts the muteness. "Thank you," he murmurs shakily.<br>Doctor Corliss shrugs. "I'm sorry about your loss," she says, again with not a hint of pity in her voice.  
>Peeta slowly nods, his eyes dropping to the floor. He gently squeezes my hand with the smallest attempt at a smile.<br>I stare at the small lump sitting on my stomach. It will soon be gone. So will the pink and purple baby clothes. They will be stored away for future use for hopefully another daughter in this generation or in the next. Rhye is four years old. What's the purpose in the pink baby crib now? Peeta will have to disassemble the crib and store it with the baby clothes. The diapers? They won't have any use because Tristian won't fit in any of the new-born diapers in his two-year-old body.  
>I pull the lower hem of my white blouse down and sit up. With Peeta's hand, I gradually stand up, straightening my black pants. I microscopically nod at Doctor Corliss. "Thanks for making sure," I say under my breath.<br>She doesn't respond or anything. She keeps her lips shut and hands working on cleaning the machine for the next patient.  
>Peeta presses his hand on the small patch of skin between my shoulder blades and guides me out of the hospital, which means walking down a flight of stairs because the first floor is the emergency room.<br>Once we're on the last step, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I collapse in his arms, slapping my hands on my face, and letting the tears dampen his dark blue shirt. His arms tighten around my shoulders. I feel his lips against my forehead.  
>"It's okay," he whispers, lifting his chin to the top of my head. "It's not your fault."<br>I rigidly shake my head. How can he say that? I did something that harmed the baby. And there's no way of bringing her back. He had to go through the trouble of buying newborn necessities. Cribs, clothes, food, diapers, baby wipes. And all the effort will be washed away because of me. Because of something _I_ did.  
>He pulls me away from his arms, taking my face in his hands. I keep my head low as he runs his thumbs over my cheeks to evaporate the tears. "Shh," he whispers reassuringly. "I don't blame you for this. I never will."<br>It takes me a few sniffs for me to respond. "W-why not?" I ask shakily.  
>"Because it's not," he replies softly. He brings my face closer to his until his lips are pressed against mine. He hooks an arm around my waist when he lets go. And we walk to the car with my head on his shoulder.<br>When we're at home, I tell Peeta I want to head in the woods.  
>"Want to be alone?" he asks with worry.<br>I nod. "I just..." But the words can't form a correct sentence in my head. Too many words but not enough strength to create a sentence. And my throat is tightening up.  
>He nods. "Okay." He walks up to me and kisses my cheek before I head in the woods.<br>_Another walk alone_, I tell myself as I make my way towards the forest._  
><em>I realize how long it's been since I told someone I had to take a walk with just myself and my surroundings. Then I recall I last said that to Gale when I stood at the aftermath of the bombing. The remnants of the house that stayed.  
>I push that thought to the side. I did not walk to the woods to think about the bombing. I'm in the woods for a little comfort, not any daunting memories.<br>The familiar leafy scent fills my nose the second I step on the dry dirt. I press my palm against the rough bark, breathing in deeply. Then I push myself forward until my back against the tree and slide down. I sit on the hard dirt, hugging my knees to my chest. I take one look up at the trees, reminding myself that it's about six in the afternoon. The sun will set in a couple of hours. I watch the long branches and dancing leaves. The birds flying gracefully, dodging the branches until they perch on the right one. I lower my head so my forehead is pressed against my knees. And the only thing I see is darkness. The tears sting my eyes. But I don't care. I let them fall. Because I'm alone.  
><em>I'm the reason why she's dead<em>.  
>Those words ring in my mind.<br>She's with Prim.  
>My father.<br>Finnick.  
>Mags.<br>Wirress.  
>Rue.<br>The majority of District Twelve.  
>And countless other people that have died because of me. Because of the Hunger Games. Because of the mockingjay.<br>When I hear the branches stop moving, I lift my head from my knees. And I realize how dark it is. I can barely see five feet in front of me. So I stand up, using the trees as my guide.  
>When I'm out of the cluster of trees, I find the only yellow light in the distance. it's coming from the top floor of the house. I hold onto the golden doorknob, heaving a sigh. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand and open the door, scraping my shoes on the mat before walking in. Everything turned off. I can only see the outlines of the wooden chairs, kitchen counters, pots, pans, cabinets. The only sound is coming from upstairs. A low, smooth voice singing.<br>Peeta.  
>He's singing lullabies to Tristian. I can't hear him that well. Maybe he knows I can't sing lullabies for a while because my throat has tightened up and my vocal chords are frozen. Either way, I know I can't sing. Not tonight.<br>I quietly walk up the stairs, the words finally registering into my brain. I watch from the door, only my head past the edge of the doorframe.  
>He rocks back and forth with Tristian enveloped under his arms, wearing the same clothes from this afternoon. Tristian watches with wide gray eyes, his father's lips spilling out calming words.<br>_May I hold you as you fall to sleep?__  
>When the world is closing in<em>_  
>And you can't breathe<em>_  
>May I love you?<em>_  
>May I be your shield?<em>_  
><em>_When no one can't be found,__  
>May I lay you down?<em>  
>Peeta sings the verse four times, when Tristian's eyes finally flutter shut, breathing slowly. Peeta brings Tristian's head closer to his face with a hand under Tristian's neck, and presses his lips against Tristian's forehead before carefully laying him on his crib. When he turns around, he pulls me under his arms. My arms wrap around his waist, registering the heat radiating from his strong body. The tears don't come this time. Maybe my body needs a break from all of the tears. Or I just simply ran out.<br>With an arm around my waist, he walks me to our bedroom.

* * *

><p><strong>The song I used for Tristian's lullaby is "May I" by Trading Yesterday, so I didn't make up the lyrics (but I wish I did because they're lovely). I'm hoping to have each of their two kids to have their own lullaby. I'm still thinking of a song for Rhye. I first pictured the song for just Peeta and Katniss. But I thought about the chorus of the song and wanted their son to have it as his lullaby.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the extra spaces between paragraphs. I don't know why it happened, and I don't know how to reverse it. By the way, this chapter is about twice as much as my other chapters.**

* * *

><p>I sit on the recliner, running my thumb over my stomach as if it will revive the infant that was alive in there. The recliner is the only think I've been sitting on these days. I impatiently push the loose strands of hair aside when there's a knock at the door.<p>

_Who would want to see me in this condition?_ I think._  
><em>I realize the answer to the question in seconds: anyone who has never acknowledged my miscarriage.

I rigidly stand up, heaving a breath and push my hand over my hair to straighten it. I look down at the clothes I managed to throw on: one of Peeta's outgrown black shirts and ripped-up jeans.  
>When I open the door, the sunlight hits me too hard that I squint, barely seeing the visitor. The dark silhouette is looking down at me. With the sun at the top corner of his muscular figure, I can only make out the collar of the polo shirt. Once my vision is in focus of the visitor, I stop at a mid-breath.<br>"Hello, Katniss," says Gale.  
>"Hello, Gale," I greet him uneasily. I'm surprised by how tall he has gotten. Maybe five inches at most. I pull the dark door wider and gesture him to come inside.<br>He scrapes his shoes on the mat outside first then slowly walks in, his gray eyes bouncing at the walls of pictures of Peeta, the kids and me. "Nice house," he says casually.  
>"Thank you," I mutter, though my voice is a little strained.<br>I motion my hand for the leather sofa in the living room right in front of the recliner. He rests his body on the sofa. How minuscule it looks weighing his body. "Do you want anything? I can make-"  
>He shakes his head before I finished my offer. "No, I just came here to see you." He smiles. A different smile. Not the smile I typically get when we used to go hunting. It looks a little pushed back. Forced. His eyes are as still as a stone.<br>I lean against the recliner.  
>"So, where's Peeta?" he asks.<br>"Working all day at the bakery today. He brought the kids with him," I answer. "How are you, Gale?" I ask with a small smile.  
>"I'm fine," he replies. "How are you?"<br>Should I tell him I'm okay? I would be lying. "I-I'm," I stutter.  
>"Katniss?" he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What's wrong?"<br>I inhale sharply. The tears sting my eyes. Gale hasn't seen me cry in years. Years of never letting the tears seep through my eyes in front of him. _Years_.  
>He stands up, taking my forearms under his hands.<br>_Still strong_. That's my first thought about his hands. And rough.  
>I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, like there's a drought in my hurricane of thoughts. I can't spill everything out. Because it's too complicated. Tears flood the rims of my eyes as I find his worried eyes on mine. "I had a baby...and I lost her," I reply lowly with a break in my voice.<br>I'm about to say more until his arms are around me. I slide my hand from my side to cup my mouth, my other hand hanging loosely from Gale's waist.

I miss his warmth. I miss his strong arms. I miss the steadiness of his heartbeat because it was the only thing that kept me grounded through the hardest times years ago. I just miss Gale Hawthorne. My hunting partner. My best friend. The person whom I used spilled every secret to.  
>"It's okay, Katniss," he whispers into my hair. It sounds like his hunting voice. The voice he uses to keep alarmed game steady as he pulled out his set of bow and arrow or setting up snares. The same voice he used when he told me District Twelve was gone. The same voice that drops my heart every time I hear it.<br>He pulls me down with him until I'm situated on his lap. His hand runs down my hair. "It'll be okay," he whispers.  
><em>It won't<em>, I want to tell him. But I make no attempt at objecting for almost forty-five minutes.  
>Gale pulls my head back, evaporating the tears with his thumbs. It feels wrong for me to sit on his lap because I'm married to Peeta with two kids- three if you count the dead fetus inside of me. He manages the slightest smile. It doesn't seem like it's forced this time. His eyes soften. "We can talk about something else," he suggests, still smiling.<br>I slowly nod. I scoot past his lap and sit on the leather couch because he has taken over the recliner. I lean forward, elbows on my thighs. He pushes himself against the recliner so he's at least a foot taller than where the headrest is.  
>I feel like we're both strangers pushed into an empty room to make a conversation, only knowing each other's names. It doesn't feel like the gale I talked to in the woods, who would rant and ridicule the Capitol. "Are you married?" I spit out.<br>_Stupid!_ I tell myself.  
>He nods uneasily, like he has a stiff neck, his smile fading. "Yes, I am."<br>"Oh," I mutter flatly. "She's a lucky girl."  
>He shrugs. "Peeta's a lucky guy," he says.<br>We sit there with the uneasy silence filling the space between us until I ask him if he has any kids.  
>"Just one," he answers, dodging my eyes to stare at the pictures behind me. "His name is Drew, short for Andrew."<br>"That's a nice name," I say.  
>"We found out it meant defender, so why not name him Andrew?" he says. Then he turns the question to me. "What are your kids' names?"<br>"Rhye and Tristian," I answer lowly. I feel like I should explain the names, but he doesn't ask any further.  
>"Those are really nice names, too." Another forced smile. I hate those forced smiles. I want a real smile from him. The genuine smiles. Real smiles.<p>

I realize I miss another thing: his smiles when he caught game. Those were one of the moments where his smiles were real.  
>"So, what got you to visit?" I ask.<br>"You," he says with an edge in his voice. "I wanted to see how you were doing. The kids And Peeta, of course."  
>"It didn't go the way you planned, huh?" I say with the smallest smile and groggily eyes. I want to sit on the recliner and fall asleep. Forget this visit happened. Rewind until the knock from the door. Because he came here to see how I was doing. And I'm not doing so well. So it was basically a waste of time and money for him.<br>He raises an eyebrow at me. "I wanted to see you and your new family. That's kind of all I wanted."  
>I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Let's go to the woods."<br>Then he raises both of his eyebrows at me. "Are you serious?"  
>I nod. "I just..." I want to tell him that I want it to be like the old times for once. Where the woods were our escape. And savior. If I never started hunting, if our fathers didn't die in the mine explosion...<br>"Okay," he says. He stands up.

* * *

><p>The second the leaves crack under our feet, the flashbacks start. The first time I met Gale. The game we hunted to buy Lady, Prim's goat. The countless squirrels, deer, rabbits that saved our families for years. The kiss before the Quarter Quell.<p>

Once we're in the center of the cluster of trees, where just a trunk of a tree sits, Gale looks up. A smile cracks his lips, his eyes lighting up. That sends a smile across my face.  
>"This is the same-" he starts off in bewilderment.<br>"Yeah," I interrupt in astonishment. It's the same woods we met. The exact spot. I can tell because the fence that guarded District Twelve from the Meadow was only fifteen yards away. The mound of dirt that looks fresh from digging is the only mark that we know of for the borderline between District Twelve and the Meadow. And there is this one tall tree, the tallest in the woods, that held a nest of birds on one branch, a plump beehive on another and a couple of squirrels. Now it's still the tallest tree. The nest is just a lump of twigs, empty of any birds. The beehive is lying just a couple of yards away from the tree- the wind possibly knocked it down because the beehive was so secured to the branches for so long that the beehive gave up hanging on. The squirrels are dead, of course.  
>"I miss the woods," I say as I inhale deeply.<br>"Me, too," Gale agrees but doesn't meet my eyes.  
>"No woods in District Two?" I ask.<br>He meticulously shakes his head. "Not even a small bunch of trees," he answers. "Usually, the trees are used for decoration, like in front of the mansions to watch the birds or in the backyard with a swing." He shrugs microscopically, his smile twisting to bitter lips of hatred. "It disgusts me: how District Two takes the trees for granted."  
>That's the Gale I remember. A small ache in my chest mourns for the past but also desires for the future. Because I miss those days before the reaping, where we could spit anything out.<br>But I agree with him.  
>"They eventually die- I don't really know how you can kill a tree- and they replace the trees," he continues.<br>"I don't like District Two," I confess in a mutter.  
>"I don't either, but it's where I work," he says.<br>I tilt my head back to see if anyone has followed. But why would anyone follow Gale and me? It's the woods. Everyone in Twelve is finally living in paradise. And the woods are just a reminder of the past, which was hell.  
>"When did you have to leave Two to visit me?"<br>He stops to think, maybe calculate the hours. Or minutes. "About four, five hours ago. You know the technology here. Fried fish in like two minutes."  
>"When do you have to go back?" I ask weakly because I don't want him to leave. Not yet.<br>"Maybe tonight."  
>"Does your wife know you're here?"<br>His jaws clench. He won't meet my eyes. Not for a second. "Yes. She doesn't want me to stay too long."  
>"Okay," I mumble. I exhale slowly, pushing the thought of his wife from my mind. "I wish I could climb this tree." I run my hand down the bark of the tall tree. "It'd be nice to see the top of Twelve again."<br>His eyes are finally on mine, but they're rock-solid, as a corner of his lips tug upwards. I can't read anything in his eyes. "Maybe I can carry you on my shoulders."  
>I shake my head immediately. "No, it's fine. I just miss seeing the view from up there."<br>"You'll see it soon," he assures me.  
>I smile with closed lips.<br>He sighs. "I guess I should go. By the time I get over there, it'll be about- what? - eleven at night?"  
>"Maybe Andrew misses you already," I mutter flatly. Andrew must miss his father. Gale hasn't been home for almost six hours.<br>As we walk back to my house, I ask if Gale would like anything to eat or drink for only a couple of minutes.  
>Again, he declines the offer.<br>"We're not starving to death anymore, Gale," I remind him, a little irritated.  
>"I'm just not hungry," he mumbles, staring at the cement under his clean shoes.<br>When we reach my house, I tiptoe, my arms around his shoulders. His body tenses up, hesitating before hooking his arms around my waist.  
>"I'll miss you, Gale," I whisper into his collarbone.<br>His hand runs up my back. "I'll miss you, Catnip."  
>A slight, breathy yet painful laugh escapes my lips. I miss him casually calling me "Catnip."<br>I pull away because my toes are screaming in pain as they try to bare my weight. How long have we been holding each other?  
>He cranes his neck, pressing his lips against my cheek. "Friendly gesture," he says with yet another forced smile. "Take it easy, Katniss."<br>I nod. "I'll write back next time," I say, though my brain wasn't in the process of saying that.  
>He smiles, a real one this time. "Okay. Maybe I can visit again. When Peeta isn't working."<br>"You should bring your wife and Andrew next time," I suggest with a smile. There's a small tug in my brain that regrets saying that. But I will bet a squirrel his wife would never want to see me.

Maybe Andrew can play with Rhye and Tristian. Just the kids playing while the parents talk and – possibly – reminisce, if there is anything to reminisce with Gale's stranger wife.  
>He nods slowly, like he doesn't like the idea. "Sure."<br>Then he walks down the sidewalk. I cross my arms over my chest, watching his body get smaller and smaller until it's just a dot in the row of shops and houses.  
>"Take it easy," he said. Those words. His voice. Ringing in my mind.<p>

I know I won't be able to take anything easily.


	6. Chapter 6

**French the llama! More uncontrollable and unnecessary spaces. I'm so sorry about this. I don't know why they do this to me.**

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><p>"Peeta," I mutter as his hands cover my eyes. The warmth of his hands and the darkness that accompanies it are the first things I feel and see. "Peeta," I say firmer.<br>"Katniss, it'll be okay," he objects me reassuringly. His hands tilt my head left, guiding me out of the house.  
>"What about Tristian and-"<br>"Vara's taking care of them." His thumbs run over my hair at the sides of my head.  
>Vara. Greasy Sae's real name.<br>"She doesn't mind?" I ask worringly. Because I don't think it would take just one person to take care of Tristian and Rhye. Their games and imaginations running everywhere that not even three people could keep up with the both of them.  
>"No, Katniss," Peeta replies. "She doesn't."<br>"Are you sure?"

Then there's the click of the door.  
>"Katniss, Vara - just take a step slowly down the porch - won't mind - and one more step - taking care of the kids. And we won't be gone for that long, so don't worry."<p>

I don't even know where Peeta is taking me, but I trust him.

I manage a small smile. The small push of the wind sends my hair brushing my cheek. For the next couple of minutes, I walk blindingly with Peeta's hands and soft voice as a guide. That's when I smell the scent of the earthy woods.  
><em>No hunting<em>, is my first thought.  
>I feel the rays of the sunlight hitting my forehead, just above the skin of Peeta's fingers. And then his hands free my face as my lips part, a gasp escaping between them.<br>The weather is beautiful. Perfect, actually. Not a cloud in the light blue sky. The light wind picks up the leaves hanging above us. There are no bugs in sight.

There's a red blanket on the short-cut grass, sitting under a tree with thin branches and green leaves. A small basket filled with pastries and water right in the center of the blanket.  
>"I…I-Peeta," I stutter in a whisper.<br>He takes my hand and situates the both of us on the blanket, facing each other on either side of the basket. But I couldn't suppress the urge to hook my arms around his neck and sit on his lap. His arm wraps around my waist when his lips press against mine.  
>"Thank you," I whisper to his lips when we pull away.<br>The darkness of his pupils grows, nothing about rendered flashbacks. I've learned once, many years of which I had school, that someone's eyes dilate about half of its size when that person looks at someone who he or she loves. And I think that's why his pupils are so big.  
>"Katniss," he starts with a smile. The pool of blue of his eyes has turned lighter due to the sunlight. "I just thought you would need a small break from everything." He sighs. "From…from nightmares and taking care of Tristian and Rhye."<p>

"I did," I whisper. I incline my head on his shoulder so all I could see is his light sideburn and his jawline.

His arm slides up my back until it's around my shoulders. "The cheese buns ended up at the bottom of the basket, so there's a chance that," he lets out a light laugh, "they're flat."

"It's fine," I say.

The first cupcake has blue frosting neatly spread across the top, the center engulfed with a tiny red flower. Not a rose, no. Peeta would never frost a rose.

And for the next thirty minutes or so, we ate. Cheese buns. Floral-frosted cupcakes.

By the time our stomachs couldn't fit any more food inside, Peeta pushes the basket until it sits on the grass to our left. He pulls me down until we're both lying, him on his back and me on my side. His arm runs under my neck; my hand resting on his chest. I tuck my head under the small part of his arm that connects to his chest.

Maybe it's the time to tell him. Gale's visit. But the guilt in my chest grows whenever I talk to Peeta about Gale.

Before I could stop myself, I mumble his name shakily. "Peeta."

He raises an without even meeting my eyes. "Yes?"

"Gale visited me a couple of days ago," I say.

"What did you and Gale do?" he asks lowly.

Guilt balls in my chest because it's been two days since Gale visited, and I never told Peeta.

"We talked about how our lives are," I sigh.

"Did you tell him about the," he starts cautiously, but his voice lowers down to a whisper at the last word, "baby?"

I nod slowly. "I couldn't hold it all in," I confess quickly. "And I ended up crying."

"It's normal," Peeta assures me. "Did you do anything else?"

"We went in the woods for a while," I answer.

"Did you guys actually hunt?"

I shake my head. "I didn't think I should have brought anything to the woods."

"Oh," he mutters.

And then regret drops in my chest because of the lowness of his voice. The hollowness. The same hollowness when he found out it was all for the Games.

He swerves past the subject of Gale in a minute or two. "Want to see my favorite color?"

I nod, keeping my mouth shut in case I say more things and the same haunting hollowness in his voice revives. We lie down in silence, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. It's reassuring. His heartbeat. His heartbeats are in its regular rhythm, so I know that he wasn't making Gale's visit a big deal.

It takes a while for the sky to darken a couple of notches and allow the sun to have a break from shining in this part of Panem, and onto another country somewhere in the world.

It's a small ball of a beautiful orange light slowly descends under the cluster of trees. I now know why Peeta says this is his favorite color. It's an everyday color. The sun sets everyday, giving us chances to see the color. But the chances were wasted to even behold this color even for a second.

Neither of us talked until I spoke up about the sunset.

"It was beautiful," I say lowly.

"Sunset orange?" he asks.

"Yes," I confirm.

And we never spoke after. We listen to our slow heartbeats and breathing. We feel warm skin against warm skin even with the small push of the wind. We watch the dark sky, quickly dotted with the stars, just like what the Capitol looked like years ago in the District Twelve floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Vara means "careful" in Scandinavian, so that's why I named Greasy Sae "Vara."<strong>

**I wanted to pull an Augustus Waters when Peeta was guiding Katniss out of the house with his hands over her eyes. It could have went, "Katniss, Vara - just take a step slowly down the porch - won't mind - and one more step - taking care of the kids. And we won't be gone for that long - oh my gosh, Katniss you're going to fall off the stairs if you don't hold my arm like right now - so don't worry - after giving birth to two beautiful kids, your balance really needs some practice." But the idea of the stairs scene was kind of inspired _The Fault in Our Stars_ by John Green (which I highly recommend you to read because it's beyond amazing).**


	7. Chapter 7

**My apologies that this took a lot longer than usual (and I do take forever. Again, apologies on never updating like every week just like everybody else) because all of the drafts and plans that were in my flash drive got erased. So now it's all gone.. I was kind of depressed at first, but I can start fresh with different events happening in this. But oh, well. ****_The world is not a wish-granting factory _****(****_TFiOS_****).**

* * *

><p>The grass has a small layer of dew still settling in to the roots, also hanging onto my sandals. Rhye curls her tiny fingers around my forefinger. The wind is slightly pinching my arms. The light jingling of the black metal fences. The casual red dress hangs under my knees. And when Rhye frees my hand, she hides behind my back, clutching the back of my leg. Her purple backpack makes her a lot smaller than usual that I attempted to persuade her to get a smaller backpack.<br>I reach behind me and take her small arm, dodging the short braid I weaved this morning. I don't look but I know it's the fabric of the dark blue jacket she's wearing that my fingers brush.  
>"Rhye," I whisper, trying to contain the nervousness that tries to urge its way out into my voice.<br>It's her first day of school. What if she doesn't speak? What if she's asked to sing? What if it's a recurrence of Peeta and me when we were five years old? Did I forget to pack her lunch?  
>I keep walking toward the small building surrounded by a playground in a sea of green, pushing the thoughts from my mind, as Peeta laughs behind me. A wave of music. I pivot to the side when Rhye lets go of my leg.<br>When I do, I catch Peeta's hands hooked around Tristian's waist the second tristian comes running in front of Peeta. Tristian squeals, covering his eyes in embarrassment that his father could catch him. And that he's too slow.  
>Then Peeta begins to recline backwards, my heart racing in anxiousness. I hurry towards him and wrap my hands around his arms that hold onto Tristian. When I fixate on a good grip, I lean back and heave him back up.<br>"Peeta," I attempt to growl, but a smile cracks my face.  
>"I'm sorry," he says, his lips pressing against my forehead. "Tristian spazzed out a bit."<br>But of course I forgive him. The countless amounts of times when he forgave me. When I smacked his face when the nightmares hit me hard. The time I licked the last bits of frosting. When I wasn't watching Tristian as I cooked and found Peeta's prosthetic leg on the couch the second I heard Peeta wake up from upstairs. And many more.  
>I feel a tug on my dress. I look down and find Rhye pouting.<br>"I don't wanna go to school," she mumbles.  
>"You have to, Rhye," I say softly.<br>"But no one will like me," she complains.  
>I kneel on my right knee, sweeping my hand under my knee so that the dress doesn't brush the grass. "Rhye, it's just the first day of school. I'm sure<em> lots of people<em> will be as nervous as you."  
>She looks down and bites her lower lip. But she doesn't say anything.<br>"Rhye, there's nothing to worry about," I assure her with a smile. "We'll pick you up in the school and you can tell us the stories of the kids and teachers you met."  
>Peeta shifts his weight down next to Rhye. "Rhye, I promise you that there's nothing to worry about. Everybody will be nice to you if you're nice to them."<br>She nods slowly. She favors Peeta more than me ever since Peeta's flashbacks have evaporated. Maybe because of the string of tenderness in his voice that calms her down. His voice penetrates every wall that tries to block from any form of bowing down.  
>I pull Tristian in my arms when he attempts on climbing up Peeta's shoulder. Tristian presses his warm cheek against my nose.<br>The high-pitched, yet loud, bell rings.  
>Peeta and I straighten up. Tristian's arms hook around my neck. Rhye loops her fingers around Peeta's hand.<p>

And we walk.

* * *

><p>A woman, about thirty years old, stands in front of a clear wall of plastic- a board version of the Holo. But I push that thought from my mind. The woman has short red hair and green eyes. A green dress drapes around her body.<p>

The classroom is unbelievably filled with a variety of colors. One wall is blue. Another is red. Then green. And lastly yellow. In between the colorful walls are toys of every color, chalkboards and a painted wooden shelf for the children to store their backpacks. A place perfect for children.  
>When her eyes have set on me, they widen. A smile cracks her face and she walks towards me.<br>I feel wetness on my collarbone and realize the saliva streaking down Tristian's cheek and onto my shoulderbone. Then the blubbering of his gibberish. "Tristian," I hiss in a whisper.  
>"Hello," the woman smiles, sticking her hand out. "I'm Cara Harris."<br>I shake her hand slowly. "I'm K-"  
>"Everyone knows that," she interrupts. "But I'll be your daughter's teacher."<br>I nod. "So when does class end?"  
>"It'll end in four hours," she answers. "At two."<br>"Thank you," I say softly. And she walks away.  
>Peeta kneels next to Rhye in front of the shelf for belongings. I walk up to them and hover above their heads.<br>"-be okay," Peeta finishes. He looks up when my shadow has casted over him. He smiles, his eyes softening. "Rhye's still scared."  
>I jump to fixate Tristian under my arms, sighing. "It'll be alright." I try my best to give her a Peeta-esque smile, but failing because my lips are trembling in fear.<br>Silence will fill the house when she's gone. Tristian will have no one to play with for four hours straight. And the house will constist of four people instead of its usual five.  
>"Katniss," Peeta says gently. He stands up, his hands on my arms. "Katniss," he whispers in my ear.<br>I shake my head, though I feel like the walls are caving in, taking in the oxygen with them. "It's alright, Peeta." I catch Rhye's eyes below me, and I harden.  
>His hand pushes the hair from my eyes. "It'll be fine," he whispers.<br>I rigidly nod. I don't say anything.  
>Cara Harris announces that the class will start soon, meaning Peeta, Tristian and I have to leave. I bend down and kiss Rhye's head. She presses her lips against my cheek, her arms around my neck for a long time. Then she and Tristian exchanges kisses on their cheeks.<br>"We'll be here the second class ends," I assure her.  
>"Okay," she mutters.<br>And we leave.

* * *

><p>I spend the four hours watching Peeta frost cakes and walking through the woods with Tristian, giving Tristian varied snacks in between hours. His voice has died down since we had to leave Rhye. The silence bothers me. For a boy who talks at every chance he gets, the silence is very foreign to me.<br>When we reach the edge of the woods, I finally speak up to Tristian. I kneel down to his height, my thumb running running over every centimeter of the back of his hand.  
>"You miss Rhye?" I ask softly in the baby voice Peeta uses to coax words or food in and out of his mouth.<br>He nods once.  
>"Let's go, okay?"<br>He begins to bounce up and down, his arms stretched forward, signalling me to pick him up. He giggles, the laughter filling the emptiness and silence since Rhye started school. I swiftly pull him under my arms and position him so his head is against my collarbone.  
>I walk to Peeta's bakery and tell him it's time to go. Behind the counter, he tells one of his assistants to take charge for the rest of the day, increasing his wage per hour until Peeta decides to come back and fill the shift.<p>

* * *

><p>"There's this girl that played with me in the swings and there was this boy who looks at me a lot and the teacher was really nice to all of us and the lunch tasted good and some people looked at me," Rhye spills out quickly as we make our way inside the house. "And two other girls and me were running in the field."<br>"I told you the first day of school will be fine," Peeta says as he pulls Rhye's backpack from her small body.  
>"A boy?" I ask defensively.<br>She nods. "He was watching me."  
>Maybe it's Peeta and me all over again, I think. Without the Games.<br>Tristian wiggles from my grasp and went away with his gibberish to Rhye.  
>Vera makes her way down the stairs and greets Rhye. Then she listens to Rhye's stories of her first day of school.<br>Peeta and I head to our bedroom.  
>"Nothing to worry about," Peeta assures me with a smile.<br>I push the red drapes apart, soaking in the sunlight. "I'm just going to sleep."  
>He walks over to me, his hands on my waist. "Everything fine?"<br>"Yes. It's just that the worrying tired me out," I explain, which is true. Worrying about Rhye's first day and Tristian's reactions to the lonliness of Rhye's presence drained every bit of energy that I wanted to have Peeta carry me on the bed.  
>And he does. My arms wrap around his neck the second his arm is under my knees and the other across my back. He carefully fixates me on the bed. He presses his lips against mine softly and leaves the room.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Wow, it's actually been months since I've updated. I'm sorry about that. T_T I suck at updating this and I've had to work on projects and tests and everything. So yeah..**

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><p>The fog-blanketed windows in the living room blur the thick white layer of snow outside. The snow. Pure white. Cold. On the trees. On the stairs leading towards the porch. On the railing. Everywhere but not the porch itself. I can still see the little holes trailing each other, where Tristian and Rhye were chasing each other hours ago. I see the two pairs of sinking snow under a tree, where Peeta and I stood and watched our children play. Just to the left of the tree stands a snowman. Short and not as round as any typical snowman should be.<p>

Behind me, Peeta tends the fire, in a black shirt and blue jeans, the crackling of the waving flame echoing throughout the entire living room. Tristian, in a light blue shirt and gray pajama pants, watches his father silently from his side. Rhye attempts on pushing red boxes to the living room, her small arms shaking under the two layers of jackets she chided me to leave on after playing in the snow. Her socks against the wooden floor sends her feet sliding. The evergreen tree Peeta dragged in moments ago is slightly taller than him - just by a few inches - and sits at the back corner of the living room, right next to the red couch and window. From a green box, slightly smaller than the one Rhye is trying to push, I carefully pick out the colorful glass circles to decorate the tree. Red, green, blue, purple. A lighter purple. A darker green. The darkest red.

I hear Peeta's prosthetic leg click. I turn around when he straightens up. He walks over to Rhye and picks up the box. Rhye follows, breathing heavily behind him. She stops following about halfway, just a couple of yards in front of the fire, and places the back of her hand over her forehead. She bends her knees and falls backwards. Fake fainting, of course. Tristian stands up at the _thud _of his sister's small body against the floor and taps his small foot against the side of her face.

"Are you dead?" he asks lightly.

"No," Rhye shoots back at him immediately, the fainting act fading.

Buttercup meows in annoyance from the kitchen.

Tristian turns around and hurries towards me and Peeta, standing between the two boxes. "Blue blue blue blue blue blue blue," he chants.

"Do you want to put the blue ornament near the top, Tristian?" Peeta says softly.

Tristian nods, picking out the blue ornament in the box. When he finds it, he holds it up to Peeta.

Peeta's hands wrap around Tristian's rib cage and picks him up, almost at his eye level. Tristian's hands, cupping the ornament, hovers over the part of the tree that he could reach, silently picking which spot is best for the ornament. Peeta's arms aren't shaking due to the prolonged time he's been holding Tristian.

Tristian finally places the looped string on the tree, right in the center of Peeta's eye level. Peeta places Tristian back on the ground. And Tristian runs to the kitchen, where the cookies are sitting in the oven.

"You can help Tristian frost the cookies," I say.

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "I'd rather decorate the tree first," he replies with a smile. "The cookies aren't done, yet."

I slowly nod.

One by one, we hang an ornament.

Tristian is watching the orange light from the oven. Rhye has fallen asleep on the ground.

"Katniss," I hear Vera call my name shakily from the second floor.

"Yes, Vera?" I call back, bending down to pick up another ornament.

"Where did Tristian and Rhye go?"

"Over here with us," I answer.

Then a pang of guilt hits me. I haven't asked Vera if she wanted to help decorate the house for Christmas. I don't know if she is able to - due to the strength she has left. She's been in bed for most of the day, leaving her bed to go to the bathroom.

She says okay and then she's silent.

"I'll ask her if she wants to help," I tell Peeta.

"Alright," he says, along with a slight tilt of his head.

I silently walk up the stairs, in case she has returned to sleeping. When I turn to her room, just at the end of the right side of the hallway, her door is still open and she's sleeping, her chest slowly rising and falling. I guess she didn't have any intentions on helping. I don't wake her up to ask. I walk back down and continue helping Peeta with the ornaments.

* * *

><p>The living room is a burst of color when Peeta and I finish decorating the tree. Colorful glass ornaments trailing each other. Small candy canes swinging. Small stockings filled with sweets. The lights running around the entire tree. The silver star stands at the top.<p>

Tristian sits in front of the tree and pokes the candy cane, his lips twisting because of his desires to eat one. Peeta pulls a candy cane from his pocket - a blue one - and drops it on Tristian's lap. Tristian squeals and runs around the living room, holding the candy cane in the air and laughing.

Peeta hooks an arm around my shoulders as we watch Tristian run in circles. A smile cracks my face.

_If only everyone was here_, I think.

My smile fades away and my eyes are set on the wooden floor.

He brings his lips close to my ear."Should we let him try to open it?" Referring to the candy cane.

I simply nod.

Peeta turns and presses his lips against my forehead. My head tilts to the side, resting where Peeta's arm and chest connect.

Tristian sticks the candy cane between his teeth and cracks it in half.

Rhye skips around the living room, Buttercup wedged between her small arms.

Peeta and I settle down on the couch, his arm around my shoulders. I lean against him, listening to his slow heartbeat.

And we watch our kids run. And laugh.


	9. Extra Chapter 2

I wake to the violent knocking from the door. Peeta's hand squeezes mine, slowly sliding it off his chest. My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. In the dark, with the windows slightly parted, I can see the dark outline if his body and a wave of his blonde hair. Crying erupts from the other side of the bedroom door and I immediately push myself against the headboard of the bed.

_I promised_, I tell myself.

Seconds after Peeta opened the door, he walks in with Rhye, in her pajamas, folded under his arms and her head pressed against his shoulder.

Peeta settles down on the edge of the bed with Rhye sitting on his lap. She curls up and pushes herself closer to Peeta's chest, burying her face in his night shirt.

I take Rhye's small, fragile hand under mine and run my thumb over the back of her hand. The guilt hits me, a darkness that swallows my body. Because I promised her that I would be there when nightmares haunt her. But here she is, sobbing because of one.

"Daddy," she mumbles weakly to Peeta's chest.

Peeta runs his hand over Rhye's dark long hair, his other hand across her back, and whispers softly, "It's okay. The nightmares faded away and you're awake. They're gone."

She shakes her head, still pressed against his chest. "B-but they almost-" hiccup, "killed me w-with-" hiccup, "a knife."

"I promised to be there when you get nightmares," I say to her softly.

"When did you promise that?" Peeta asks, the sharpness in his voice that only means that he's offended we left him out of this vow.

"When she asked me about nightmares." I squeeze her hand. "You sleep with us tonight. Is that okay?"

She nods slowly after a moment of hiccuping. "Mommy," she whispers shakily.

"Yes?"

"Can you sing?"

I tell Peeta to lie down with Rhye resting on his chest. He pulls the blanket up to Rhye's shoulders, which is up to my chest. I envelope her hand under the thick blanket. Her fingers curl around only three of my fingers. Peeta tilts his head against the side of mine as we comfort Rhye. Then I start singing the song Rhye has been trying to memorize the past two weeks.

_Do you ever wonder if the stars still shine for you?_

_Float down, like autumn leaves_

_Hush now_

_Close your eyes before the sleep_

_And we're miles away_

_And yesterday, you were here with me_

I skip the next verse because the chorus of the song is her favorite part.

_Is it that it's over or do birds still sing for you?_

_Float down, like autumn leaves_

_Hush now_

_Close your eyes before the sleep_

_And we're miles away_

_And yesterday, you were here with me_

By the end of the two verses, her breathing is slowed down and her hiccuping has minimized to sharp breathes every few seconds.

"Are you fine with Rhye in you?" I ask Peeta quietly.

He doesn't answer. His deep breathing responds instead if his voice. My voice has sent him asleep. I kiss Rhye's cheek and Peeta's lips goodnight before sleep pulls me under.

* * *

><p><strong>So yeah, it's just a quick chapter with Rhye's lullaby. If you don't know the song, it's <strong>**_Autumn Leaves_**** by Ed Sheeran. It's a nice song to listen to if you're tired, but the song is also sad. It also reminds me of ****_Delirium_**** by Lauren Oliver.**


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